Stumbling Over You
by RachelDalloway
Summary: Rose marries Calvert, but does that mean she doesn't still want Jack? Oneshot


**AN: Annachie is pronounced "An-a-key" This story began as a conversation with JLuckyJ so she deserves some credit for it. **

It was easier not to want him when she was alone. She still thought of him, but it was easier to accept his absence. An ache ringed the place in her heart where she kept him; it warmed her, spurred her on to live the life she was meant to live. The life, she reminded herself on the nights when the wind howled outside her window and her thin blanket was no comfort, he had sacrificed his own for.

And after all, there was his son to think about.

Rose knew she was pregnant even before the symptoms began. There was a knot in the pit of her stomach; something tightened and never let go. It was only a matter of time before the rest of her body confirmed it. She didn't work a day during her pregnancy. It was too much of a risk. She was sure her mother's stories about what happened to women who refused to stop attending balls and stay off their feet when they were "in a delicate condition" had been exaggerated, but she was equally sure there was at least a kernel of truth to them. And she would be damned if anything happened to Jack's child. There was enough money in Cal's coat pocket to keep her comfortable for ten years if she managed it right, but she only needed two.

Touching the crisp bills made her skin crawl. She swallowed her revulsion and forced herself to think of the future. _Jack wouldn't want me to take his money,_ she thought with a pang. She crumpled a twenty in her fist. _But Jack isn't here. If he was I wouldn't even be thinking about this. _

Annachie was three when she met Will, and he was the reason she noticed him. If the small boy's eyes hadn't followed him as he circled the two shelves in the library's Rare Book Room she would never have given him a second thought. He carried a thick volume of Blake and a notebook under his arm. He glanced at them out of the corner of his eye, but that was the extent of their contact. After that he was there every time Rose and Annachie came to the library. He glanced up from whatever he was working on when they passed, and once she was sure he was about to speak, but he didn't. His head dropped; he kept making notes in his tiny, perfect handwriting.

"I wonder what he's studying," Rose said to herself when he was there for the third week in a row. "Go ask," Annachie said. She laughed and ruffled his hair. He looked up at her, confusion shining in his blue eyes. A tuft of blonde hair fell over his forehead, just barely missing his eyes. "It isn't that simple, darling," she said.

"Why not?"

"Because you can't just go up to someone you've never met and start asking them questions."

"Why not?"

"It just isn't done." Rose heard Jack's laugh as she said it. _Well, it isn't. _He shook his head. _It could be,_ he argued with a grin. "Why not?" Annachie pressed again. "Why isn't it done?" She sighed. "Because that isn't how people meet one another." He nodded slowly. His blue eyes were heavy, his mouth a thin line. When they passed Will's table he let go of her hand and stopped. "What are you studying?" he asked.

Will looked up slowly, a dazed look in his eyes. Rose wasn't too distracted by embarrassment to not see what a bright hazel they were, or the softness of their expression. "English poetry," he said.

"Why?"

"Well, I suppose the best reason is because I love it."

"That's enough, Annachie," Rose said taking his hand. "I'm sorry," she added, turning her gaze back to Will. "He doesn't seem to have any compunction about speaking to strangers." Will smiled. "I don't mind," he said. "Really." He closed his books. "I can't say that many people take an interest in what I do."

It happened before Rose knew it. One day they were acquaintances, the next they were friends. And then she was waking up six months later, a small silver ring on her hand, and a wedding set for the following week. It was overwhelming, yet not stifling. She was in complete control. "No-one can make me marry Will Calvert if I don't want to," she murmured to herself. And she did want to. That was the most shocking part.

He wasn't like Jack. He was quiet and serious. His hands were always still unless he was writing. He knew nothing about art though he was more than willing to listen to her explain why she loved the Impressionists and Cubism. He was a scholar; all of his experiences came from books. A few weeks into their relationship Rose was amused to realize her life had been more adventurous than his. But he was sweet. He valued her opinions. His dreams were just as fantastic as hers in their own way. He made her happy. And Annachie adored him.

Will didn't question her insistence that they leave California after the wedding. He could do his research anywhere, and if it meant so much to her, why fight it? A part of him wondered why it mattered so much that they move, but he didn't ask about it. There were a lot of things he didn't ask about. The most persistent question was why Rose named her son after the doomed hero of a Scottish folk song. His scholar's mind always returned to that. She only used two songs as lullabies for him—that one and a "modern" song, "Come Josephine." He didn't understand her incongruent choices. What did a cheerful ditty about flying have to do with a doleful ballad about doomed lovers?

He wasn't at all like Jack, not really. Rose noticed it more and more each day. It was what attracted her to him originally. Looking at him wasn't painful. His light brown hair was clipped close. His hazel eyes were bright and quick, but they lacked the vision of Jack's. They couldn't take up the world the way Jack's had. It was the differences she liked. Except for the days when she woke up with the ache gnawing at her heart; then the differences were all too pronounced. On those days all she could think was, _Why aren't you Jack? _

It would begin in the morning and worsen as the day progressed. Everything he said annoyed her. He was too complacent. He didn't care enough about exploring the world; he would be happy if left alone forever with his books. _Do something! _She stared at him across the tiny breakfast table, sipping coffee to keep herself quiet. _Anything! _

_He is doing something,_ Jack said. There he was again. She sighed quietly. _Rose, what else should he be doing? _

_Oh, I don't know. Something more exciting? _

Jack laughed. _You know, drawing isn't all that exciting, at least not while you're doing it. _

And sometimes that would be enough to put things in perspective. They were two completely different people. How could she expect them to be similar? Especially when she chose Will for his differences? But other times it wasn't nearly enough. The mornings she woke up clutching the blanket to her chest, fingers twisters around it, only to find it wasn't Jack she was holding, there was never enough logic to make her remember why she had ever even liked Will. Everything he did was wrong. The way he spoke was wrong. He was too articulate, his words too practiced; every sentence sounded like it had come from a book or would someday go into one.

Will never asked what he had done. A vague sense that the answer he would receive would somehow completely alter his life kept him quiet. Annachie noticed the shift in mood too. His response was always to do something for his mother. When he was younger it was as simple as silently laying his head on her arm, but as he grew older his gestures began to include drawings. Rose pored over each one, tracing the lines that gradually became more and more familiar as Annachie's hand became steadier. Each year his skills came closer to matching Jack's. Her breath caught in her throat the first time he signed his full name _Annachie Jack Dawson. _Will knew his father died before he was born, but that was all he knew. She didn't know how to explain why Annachie's drawings mattered so much to her. Or maybe it was that she was afraid something would slip out that was best left unspoken.

His hands were the chief disappointment. It was such a small thing, and yet it was what Rose lay awake thinking about most often. Will's hands were soft, perpetually ink-stained, and, on a bad day, weak. They lacked the sureness of Jack's. He moved too slowly. His fingers with their perfect nails and smooth skin, skin that had never even come close to being callused, never touched her the way she wanted them to. They _couldn't _touch her the way she wanted them to; she wanted them to touch her like Jack's had.

Rose closed her eyes and slipped a hand under the sheet. Her nightgown was already up around her hips, pushed up as she twisted in her sleep. Warmth spread through her; the tingling between her legs intensified. "Jack," she murmured. Her fingers moved slowly. She lightly caressed her breasts through the thin fabric of her nightgown, biting her lip to hold in a groan. She didn't have much time, and she would have even less if she was heard. She never wondered if the brief moments she spent alone letting her desire for Jack take its natural course were wrong or a betrayal of her husband. She just knew it was something she needed.

Her fingers moved faster. She choked back a moan. "Jack." His hands were on her again, caressing with the sureness, the artistic grace she longed for. Rough at the edges yet still smooth, his calluses worn to a strong softness, his hands were everywhere at once. He made a trail of kisses over her body, chuckling softly when she squirmed. She felt his weight pressing down on her and tried to hold him closer. His scent was everywhere. "Jack…Jack…" Sometimes when it became too much she bit him, or at least, she could have sworn she did. His shoulder was warm and solid in her mouth; his skin tasted exactly as she remembered. "Jack!"

She never heard the door open. Will watched her silently, torn between guilt and desire. Next to his scholarly pursuits, to his leather-bound first editions he could little more than caress reverently for fear of the pages crumbling in his hands, Rose was the great passion of his life. She captivated him. He couldn't hold her. She slipped from his hands with a laugh every time he tried. Yet it never occurred to him to tighten his grip.

Had the floorboard not squeaked under his foot Rose would never have known he was there. Her eyes flew open. She gasped. Her heart skipped a beat. Their eyes met, and her mind raced with explanations. He didn't ask for one.

That night she made love to her husband, quietly and kindly, every bit of energy concentrated on holding back the urge to want Jack. Her resolve held until dawn, when Will slept silently beside her, and the inches between their backs felt like an unbridgeable gulf. She curled into herself, twisting the blankets around her body and watching the sun turn the blue morning into gold. If she focused just right she could feel Jack's arms around her, his body filling the gulf. His heart beat against her back, and she could sleep.


End file.
